


Vodka made me do it

by orphan_account



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Band Drama, Drunk Stuart "2D" Pot, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Minor Injuries, Minor Murdoc Niccals/Stuart "2D" Pot, Minor Violence, Murdoc tryina redeem himself, OOC, Past Abuse, Past Violence, Regret, Sad Stuart "2D" Pot, The Author Regrets Everything, inbetween phases 3 and 4
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-28
Updated: 2018-02-28
Packaged: 2019-03-25 00:14:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13822431
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: There was a chance that his drink could have been nothing more than water. But it wasn't and everyone knew.





	Vodka made me do it

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so if you've read some of my previous works and ongoing ones then you've noticed that I have a weak spot for angst, practically all I write. I'm not very good with fluff - now, however, I'm tryina cut down on angst and soon I'll be writing some real stories instead of this overly poetic stuff; I really like the poetic style because it's good for emotional one shots but I gotta get out of it so I can actually right multiple chapter stories.

>   
>  _“The only sin is the_  
>  _sin of being born”_
> 
> _\- Samuel Beckett_

 

The pellucid sparkle of Adam's ale in his cup had a chance to be nothing more than water but the diluted fetor of ethanol was unmistakable. The miasma of stale Vodka adulterated his once wonderful and sweet bouquet of butterscotch. The alcoholic aroma hung around him heavily and not once did he try to hide his intoxication, beyond the point of caring and, worryingly, a façade of apathy pervaded his soul case where his toothy grin faded into a memory long forgotten. 

Hard to think, there was once a time where he expressed himself so openly and his book was free to read as he offered the whole of himself; now the impression they had of him crumbled just as he did, killing himself slowly like a man who refused to give himself a purpose to live - relishing to stay in his awful state of mind where mental, self-inflicted torture came as frequent as the air he breathed. He had crossed the balance of what he could hold, every negative emotion forced deep before he can really feel it, making him passive and meek. A solid twenty-four hour cycle of idiotic silly disposition that crammed every other emotion away in disregard, caving himself with a black hole he created with his own negative image; a beautiful porcelain doll cracking underneath pressure, the rosy cheeks and glossy, cerulean hair only a mask as the breaks in the painted matte finish flows with tar. The space too full and so difficult to bear, difficult to breathe around his own pain; a bomb waiting to trigger at every word. How to avoid the damage of his unhealthy coping mechanism? He hadn't a clue. 

He turned to Vodka. 

Perhaps simple platitudes could have been spoken, just a few words strung together could help? Careful locution that noted his pain and offered another alternative rather than the drink he had turned too - had he turned because he felt he had no one? Did his support speak of such things? Nothing. They bit their lips and avoided him like he'd done them wrong. Like he was _wrong._

_They were cowards._

The air was brittle so much so that it could fear being snapped, surely he would if it didn't? No words were passed with him, the absolute isolation he felt, even when he saw them - Russel, Noodle, even Murdoc - it destroyed him like no Vodka could. _Could they see him? And did they care?_

He seated himself away from them, thinking he knew the answers. And he sits in silence, a pregnant silence that stretches in a long period where his ears ring. He can feel the building anger in his chest, his brain eager for the next drink of flavored, distilled grain so that this solitude he finds himself in could numb away from him just as everything else has. And if his negative outlook wasn't enough, he heard it. The faintest of whispers and he caught his name being thrown in, his name said in disgust and quick like shame. It always started this way, they would whisper amongst each other, about him like he wasn't even human enough to enjoy a respect of such. He normally excused himself. And back on the journey to his next drink. But the frustration builds, hurt at such a thing, and he knows he might explode - his vision blurring in a color of red. It was just so easy to be cruel in that moment-

"Just say if you don't want m' here," He spits, darkened intensity etching into features like murder. And they have the audacity to look shocked, stricken lines in their faces as their pitiful eyes bore into him. 

"M' parents 'ad no problem, why shouldn't you?" He urges with gritted teeth, " 'm easy t' throw away, 'm just Stuart Pot, ain't I?"

"Noodle," Russel warns softly, placing his hand on her shoulder and holds her back, like she was going to hit him. Stuart had a sickening sense of a dare, mentally challenging her and to be done with it; all his life he'd been abused and it'd be fitting to have his little sister figure have a go at it. Perhaps it was the alcohol speaking; he always tended to be harsh and hateful under Vodka's reins. Tended to jump to conclusions as well. 

"Give 'em time," Russel continued, sparking an interest in the singer, "He has to deal with this on his own,"

_They were cowards_. 

"On his own," Noodle repeats in a mocking scoff and addresses the singer - pointing at him, " _Look_ k at him! He isn't getting any better, all he's done is mope and feel sorry for himself,"

"Like you'd enjoy bein' trapped underwater wif' your worst nightmare watching over you," rages Stuart, "Like you could 'andle bein' stuck in your own personal hell, thinkin' 'hat a certain _guitarist_ died on a windmill!" 

" 'D," Russel starts with a deep tiredness. 

"Go fack yourself, Russ!" The singer shouts, standing on unsteady feet in a drunken spur of anger. 

"It's been five months, Stu," Russel says a bit more sternly. 

" 'his type of pain just doesn't _go away_ , Russel, none of the unspoken torture I've been through," He gestures to Murdoc, " 'e stol' m' damned liver, Russel! _My. Goddamn. Liver,_ " 

"I thought I was _something_ t' you! T' any of you,"

He had more to say, he had a whole _book_ of things he wanted to say and the Vodka fueled him for so much more than a little kerfuffle; his fingers twitched with unnerving energy as he anticipates a punch - wanting for any one of them to just grow the balls and _Hit. Him. Already._ He was ready for it, for one time in his life, he wasn't afraid to bloody his hands but he wasn't going to start it. He swore he'd finish it. He had a feeling that the drummer could see what he was feeling, like the murderous ambition flickered in his eyes with the oncoming droplets of crystalline tears; Russel's face softens and he opens his mouth. Russel is talking now and he gets up, his arms open wide as if to give Stuart a hug; Stuart can't hear him against his own thrum of his thoughts - drunken thoughts telling him to do things he'd surely regret. But anxiety and fear grab him by his tongue and effectively dries every single vowel from his mouth, he begins to feel the panic. The drummer is coming in too fast-

He doesn't even recognize the drummer anymore, instead, he can make out green skin as his vision blackens like he'll faint at a moment's notice; teeth glint like razor blades and nails as sharp as knives is what his mind conjures up, his imagination fueled by the poison in his system and a feeling of an impending beating lace into his spine. He feels bile rise in his throat, a sob choking him of his oxygen; all he can think about is that Murdoc has him. The phantom touch of rough hands around his throat make him back away from the drummer, screaming as a nightmare plagues his waking hours - just when he thought that Vodka was making them disappear. 

"Stay away!" His voice finds him and it's cracked, broken as his emotional pain seeps into his words. 

"No, please, not again," He whimpers, just as he did so many times on that wretched island. 

_They are all cowards._

He doesn't remember anything else, only that he managed to get more alcohol down his throat before he thoroughly blacked out. 

His head is swimming with dehydration and a pounding rests behind his eyelids, his temples in a rhythm. Not many thoughts make it back into his head and the only thing that's useful to him is the knowledge that he needs a hangover cure. 

He does a turn to Vodka again. 

He's on his bed, not a clue how he got there but he doesn't question it; days have begun to blur together and his memory has failed him countless times, this is no different and it's not like it matters anymore. He knows that he's too far behind to ever catch up with his life again. And his eyes, almost automatically, flicker to his bed stand where a pint of Vodka sits - he'd only had a few sips; should be enough for... something helpful. As stated before, he's beyond the point of caring. It's almost like Vodka was his life now, he hadn't a problem with this. 

His hand goes out to reach for it, mind blanking as it zeros in on that one detail of reaching another intoxication. And his thoughts are still blank when the pint is taken away, so fast it was like it was never there before. 

"I'd say you've 'ad enough," 

And then he sees Murdoc stow away his pint. Stuart knows he won't be getting it back, by the time it'll most likely be empty - he's in the presence of a high class alcoholic after all.

By lack of alcoholic beverage, Stuart furrows his brow, new and sober thoughts replacing whatever rotten tarnish of bad image had been home; he whimpers at the man and rubs his eyes tiredly. Sleep had been scarce and fleeting in the months he'd been drinking - which was five. The exact time he'd arrived on Wobblestreet in a cab; the peek of his mask. Where he was lying to everyone around him, lying that he was fine - he was a damned _good_ liar because... for a moment he _believed_. 

"W'ot are yew doin' ?" He notices his cockney accent is back in its usual charm, heavy as it's ever been. 

He blinks multiple times, almost like he's expecting Murdoc to be nothing but his imagination; the bassist takes a knee and kneels by the bedside. The singer lifts his head in attention and alarm, his eyes holding a doe-like alertness that hadn't been there the last he was awake and stupidly under the influence. He watches Murdoc with a weariness that only pain could have ensured and he's sober enough to play it off as lack of sleep. Stuart flinches as Murdoc cups his face, the bassist's expression in a stony intensity and his eyes are watching over the singer in a careful manner. A guarded manner. 

" 'm fixin' w'ot I've done," Stuart hears him mutter. Murdoc pats his face gently, with the singer flinching every time their skin contacts. And it's with this new found sobriety that Stuart finds enough courage to cry, let his tears slide beyond his lashes because he's not drunk and he cares... a _smidgen_ more. 

"Why'd yew do it?" Stuart questions him hopelessly. 

"I... Don't know," Murdoc answers in earnest, "I wish I could tell ya' Sort of a _mystery_ for both of us, eh?"

More words are not the answer here and this realization hits Murdoc right after he's spoken. 

Perhaps it was because this was the first time he was... really seeing his singer again instead of the drunken mess that he created, but Murdoc dips his face against the mattress, his body suddenly too weak; too much guilt weighing down on his meat suit to work properly and it was a wonder that he was able to function at all. His arms cover his head as he buries his face into the singer's bed, trying and failing to keep everything at bay - his face is heating up and it's futile to stop the flow of his tears. Murdoc felt rightly ashamed. 

"I don't know," He croaks again, his voice muffled. 

And Stuart just wants to _see_ him cry, just wants to know how _sorry_ the man is. He scrambles to sit up and he reaches for the Bassist, his hands making Murdoc look at him - just so he could see the depression in the man's eyes, see _some_ pain reflected in the mismatched pupils. He wanted Murdoc to feel a guilt so intense that it _destroyed_ him, wanted to see the man crumple before his very eyes. 

And he gets his wish but instead of satisfaction, all he feels is his stomach drop as more pain is added on his shoulders. _I'm awful,_ Stuart thinks to himself, ashamed that he wished that upon another person... even if that person was Murdoc Niccals. 

"Y-your tears," Stuart breaks the silence, voice thick with his own sadness, cracking at the slightest volume change, breathless as he tries to think of something to say quickly, "-they shine like diamonds, they're very pretty... you're very _pretty_ when you're crying.." 

He thinks he might still have a buzz, a little swallow of Vodka still in his system, because he kisses Murdoc's eyes to make the tears disappear - a feeling like compassion entering into his soul like he felt the tears didn't belong there-

Because no way in hell would he have done that while he was sober.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've read this then:  
> Stuart was extremely drunk and his band is trying to fully support him but by doing so in a wrong sort of way... he wants some attention and love and feel like he's supported but his bandmembers think that he should be given space and all that.


End file.
